


The Long Way 'Round

by sarcasmandcynicism



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, OC from our world, Original Character(s), Ridiculous, Sarcasm, have some more garbage, of course, you can pry this genre out of my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-13 19:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15371943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasmandcynicism/pseuds/sarcasmandcynicism
Summary: "While the man attempts to get out of bed, I have yet another existential crisis on the floor. Because I know why this all seems so familiar now. And somehow, despite the fact that I found out I’m dead only three days ago, things just got worse. So, so, so much worse! Because the man currently falling to the floor beside me is none other than…"... another ridiculously self-indulgent fic where someone from our world ends up in a fictional one! This time, I’m taking on The Walking Dead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone should probably tell me to stop. I've got other unfinished fics that deserve more attention than this dumpster fire of a show. But God help me, I still love it. So, here we are at the beginning of another beautiful journey. If this is the first time you've clicked on one of my stories, welcome! If you're one of my Traveler Series readers that accidentally wandered over, let me just say that at least I gave you a decent new chapter before starting this. 
> 
> Now, get ready to suspend your disbelief. If you're a fan of The Walking Dead, that should be second nature by this point.

On the edge of my awareness, a clock ticks.  _ Tick, tock. Tick, tock.  _ It goes on and on and on until it stops. Then just breathing, raspy and slow. Is it mine?

 

Time means nothing. I may have been here for mere moments, or since the beginning.

 

How did I get here? And where is  _ here? _ I’m laying down and the ceiling above me is white. The light is muted. My eyes roll in their sockets, taking in the room. Sterile, sparse furnishings, an I.V. stand, flowers.

 

_ Hospital. _

 

Red-tinged, blurry images flash behind my suddenly closed lids. Memories of a blinding light, and even more blinding pain, then darkness. I remember voices and crimson hands. Numbness, then cold, then… nothing. 

 

My eyes open again and I frown. Why is it so quiet here? There should be beeping. Did they not put a heart monitor on me? I look down to check.

 

_ This isn’t my body. _

 

For one thing, this chest is too flat, and I don’t remember having that much hair on my arms. I search around for a call button. I go to press it and my finger almost seems to… well, that’s impossible. It’s probably just broken.

 

“Hello?” I call instead and instantly regret it. My voice seems inappropriately loud, like this isn’t a silence I should be disturbing. I sit up, slowly, expecting pain. There is none. I go to push the covers off of my legs… and my fingers pass right through the blanket. Like with the button...

 

“What the -” I whisper, horrified, completely forgetting my decision not to speak. I try again to grab the blanket, but get the same result. “ _ What the fuck?!”  _ I choke out, louder. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. They pass right through the covers as well. With a creeping sort of dread, I note that the ridges under the blanket which I thought were my legs are  _ still there. _

 

Slowly, I stand up and turn around to face the bed. There’s a man in it and I scream, stumbling backwards. My mind races with possibilities. I was laying next to him and didn’t realize it; I’m dreaming; I’m high on pain meds and hallucinating. None of them feel right. 

 

No, something tells me it’s worse than any of that. 

 

I reach out to touch a nearby chair, because I have to see. I have to  _ know _ . Once again, my hand refuses to make contact. I bring them both up to my face and study them. They look normal and solid, but evidence suggests otherwise. I then look down at my feet, which are standing perfectly well on the floor. It doesn’t make any  _ sense!  _

 

Except…

 

_ No, no, no, no... _

 

It kind of makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? It’s really the only explanation. I’m dead. I died in that hospital bed over there, they moved my body down to the morgue, and some other guy got the bed after me. Then, for some reason, my soul didn’t pass on and… Well, here I am.

 

Something bubbles up in my throat. For a few seconds, I can’t tell if I’m going to laugh, cry, or puke.

 

_ Can a ghost even throw up? _

 

Turns out it’s a laugh, too loud and not at all humorous. As I sink to the floor, it changes into sobs so violent they don’t make a sound. Eventually, I cry so much I end up dry heaving. So, in the end, it was a little of all three. 

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

A few days have passed; I can tell by the darkening and lightening beyond the curtains. I’m perched on the edge of the bed (apparently I can do that, but not touch it?), studying the man laying there. I’ve done this a lot recently. Probably creepy, but I’m a ghost now. Isn’t this the kind of thing I’m supposed to do?

 

He doesn’t move, doesn’t wake up, doesn’t speak. Just lays there and breathes. Poorly, at that. I realize now it was  _ his _ breathing I heard before. I think maybe he’s dying. Or he will, if he doesn’t get some attention soon. 

 

Speaking of which… In the three days I’ve been conscious, not a single other person has come to check on him. I got curious after the first few hours and walked through the wall to check, because of course that’s a thing I can do now. One look at the corridor outside gave me all the information I needed. 

 

No one’s coming.

 

The hospital was obviously abandoned in a disaster of some sort. I ventured a little further during the second day, but got kind of freaked out when I saw blood on the walls and hurried back. 

 

The man in the bed gives a hitching breath, returning my attention to the present. I wonder how long I was gone this time. I don’t really sleep, just space out for a few hours. Time passes differently. Before, I would’ve been bored out of my mind. Now, I just sit and let the hours crawl by. 

 

The man in the bed has been my only source of entertainment and by now I have every inch of his face memorized.  _ Yeah, definitely creepy. _ But the weirdest part is how I didn’t really need to spend that much time doing so. He’s really familiar. Really,  _ really _ familiar. In fact, all of this is. I glance over at the vase of dead flowers on the table. Who brought those for him? Where are they now?

 

“That vase,” a raspy voice says from the bed. I startle hard and leap to my feet, gawking at the man who’s been my center of attention for three days. The man who is now awake and  _ talking _ . About the vase, too, like he read my mind. “That’s somethin’ special,” he goes on. “Fess up. You stealed it from your Grandma Jean’s house. Hope you left her that spoon collection.” He laughs in an exhausted, huffing sort of way, which quickly turns into coughing. “Shane?” He asks, blinking and frowning as his head turns to look at the flowers. Slowly, he reaches out and pinches one of the dried blossoms, grinding it between the pads of his fingers. His head rolls the other way and he looks up at the long-dead clock. 

 

While the man attempts to get out of bed, I have yet another existential crisis on the floor. Because I know why this all seems so familiar now. And somehow, despite the fact that I found out I’m  _ dead _ only three days ago, things just got worse. So, so,  _ so _ much worse! Because the man currently falling to the floor beside me is none other than…

 

“Rick?” I ask, feeling sick. “Are you Rick Grimes?” 

 

He rolls onto his back with a groan and doesn’t answer me.

 

“Rick,” I try again. “Rick!” Not even a hint of having heard me. I throw my arms up in the air, tears welling in my eyes. “Of course! Of course you can’t hear me! What did I think was going to happen?!” I stand up when Rick does, following his wobbling form into the bathroom. “You have no idea I’m here, do you? Hell! Maybe I’m not! Maybe this is just a nightmare and I’m not actually here or dead or any of this shit! Because there’s  _ no way _ I’m spending my afterlife inside a fucking TV show!” I slap at his arm and my hand just goes right through him, which makes me even angrier. I let out a scream and kick at the small trash can by the sink. To my utter amazement, it shifts a few inches away. Rick stops guzzling water to peer down at it, eyebrows pinched together. After a second or two, he turns away and shuffles out of the bathroom. I linger for a moment, studying the inconspicuous trash can.  _ Did I do that? _

 

As he pulls the door open and pushes the gurney out of the way, I pass through the wall and glance up and down the dark corridor. I know there isn’t any danger - _ yet _ \- but this place makes my skin crawl. Especially now that I know where I am. 

 

“What have you gotten yourself into, Nel?” I ask aloud. Behind me, Rick has started limping toward the nurse’s station. He finds a book of matches, looks around some, and moves on. Then we’re both gazing with horror through the doors leading to another hallway. The half-eaten woman on the floor is so much more real… so much worse. I turn away, gagging.  _ Oh my God… _

 

I drift behind Rick as he turns around and heads for the other doors.

 

**DON’T DEAD**

**OPEN INSIDE**

 

For some reason, seeing that strikes me as particularly funny right now and I laugh - a bit hysterically - as Rick gapes at the fingers pushing through the gap. The sound of growling keeps me from stepping closer though. As he flinches back and barges through the doors to our left, I wonder if he thinks he’s having a bad dream too. When we get to the stairs, he quickly slips through the door and shuts it behind him. Right in my face.

 

I sigh and walk through it. It’s pitch black on the other side and my heart constricts with fear. Or, it feels like it does. I don’t really have a heart anymore, do I? 

 

I can hear Rick fumbling for a match, then striking it. Light flares from his fingertips, giving us the barest suggestion of our surroundings. Rick’s face scrunches up like there’s something foul in the air, but I can’t smell anything.. which only now strikes me as odd. We take the stairs slow and Rick has to light two more matches before we make it outside into blinding daylight. 

 

Rick doesn’t notice the bodies right away - his eyes must still be adjusting - but I do. I try not to look too closely as we pass them. I am suddenly, intensely grateful I can’t smell this, because it must be horrific. 

 

I keep following Rick. Up the hill, through the abandoned military outpost, and down the streets of a suburban neighborhood. It’s so strange and quiet, with no one else around. No children, or cars, or people walking their dogs. It feels  _ wrong _ . 

 

I don’t see her -  _ it _ \- at first. But when I do, I freeze. Some part of my brain that isn’t freaking out takes a moment to note, once again, how much  _ worse _ it is seeing it in person. This scene always freaked me out, no matter how many times I saw it. But now? Now, it’s absolutely terrifying. Rick goes for the bicycle and I have the irrational and impossible urge to pull him back. It doesn’t even make that much sense, really. It’s not like this walker is going anywhere fast. 

 

I feel a scream building in my throat as it rolls over in the grass, spine and intestines dragging. Rick actually does let out a yell, scrambling back and falling over. Then he quickly climbs on the bike and speeds away.

 

“No!” I shout after him. “No, no no, don’t leave me here!” I start running. He’s not actually going that fast, favoring his left side, but I’ve never been a good runner. Even as a ghost, where the laws of physics don’t apply, I still somehow get winded. That really doesn’t seem fair.

 

Rick eventually pulls far enough ahead that I lose sight of him, which makes my chest constrict with panic.  _ Don’t lose him, don’t lose him. _ I keep jogging in the direction I last saw him go. I’m just about to backtrack and try a different street when I notice the bike discarded on the sidewalk. I hurry up the steps and into the house to find Rick sobbing on the floor. 

 

_ Oh. _

 

I sink down beside him, breathing hard. I lick my lips, ready to say something, and stop. Does it even matter? He can’t hear me. I frown and trace the wood grain on the floor as Rick calls for Lori and Carl. By the time he starts hitting himself and begging to wake up, I can’t take it anymore. Maybe he can’t hear me, but I should try anyway.

 

“Hey, hey, shhh,” I soothe and attempt to touch his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, my hand goes right through. I try again. “You don’t know me, and you probably can’t hear me at all, but it’s gonna be okay. Lori and Carl are alive. They’re with Shane. You know he can keep them safe. This new world is awful, I get that. Trust me, I  _ really _ get that. But it’s not all bad. You’ll still have good moments. And…” I trail off, thinking. Rick presses his forehead to floor and breathes in ragged bursts. I let my hand hover over his back, hoping maybe  _ something _ will transfer. Even if it’s just  _ good will _ . I sigh and drop my hand when he sits up. Numb and dazed, Rick wanders outside and sits down on the sidewalk. I follow, hovering a few feet behind. “Rick, you really shouldn’t be sitting out here.”

 

I hear light footsteps. I whirl around just as the boy walks right through me.  _ Oh crap…  _ “Rick, watch out!” 

 

Rick stops waving at the walker in the road and looks over his shoulder, spotting Duane before the boy can get close enough to deck him with a shovel. Rick pushes to his feet and backs up. “Wh-who are you?” he asks.

 

That surprises Duane enough that he lowers the shovel. “You ain’t one of them.”

 

“One of what?” Rick asks, tilting his head in confusion. 

 

The crack of a gun has us all turning. The body of the walker has barely hit the ground before Morgan has his pistol pointed at Rick.

 

“Don’t you move,” he warns and Rick holds his hands up a little in placation. Morgan gestures at Rick’s bandage. “Your injury there. How’d you get it?”

 

Rick shakes his head a little, clearly lost. “What?”

 

“Were you bit?” Morgan asks, getting impatient.

 

Rick looks at him like he’s crazy. “... Bit?”

 

“Bit, scratched, chewed. Any o’ that?”

 

“Um…” Rick glances warily between Morgan and Duane, hands still up. “Not that I know of? This here’s a gunshot wound.” He gestures toward his side.

 

Morgan studies Rick, seeming to finally notice his state of near-undress. “You got somewhere to go? Food or supplies?”

 

Rick glances up at his house with a frown. “My family… they’re not…”

 

Morgan follows his gaze and softens a little around the edges. He sighs. “We’ve got some food, if you’re hungry.” After a second’s deliberation, Rick nods. Morgan lowers his gun. “All right. But just know: you try anything, and I  _ will _ kill you. Understood?” Another nod. “Good. Let’s go eat, then.”

 

I follow them down the street and into another house, but I’m not really listening anymore. After all, I’ve got much more interesting things to ponder. Because what I just saw? That wasn’t at all how that scene was supposed to go. Something changed, and it started with me shouting a warning. 


	2. Chapter 2

I can’t sit still. I’m full of restless energy and my eyes keep drifting to Duane.

 

_ He’s going to die. _

 

I frown and pace a circle around the room again. 

 

_ He’ll die, unless you do something. _

 

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “What the hell am I supposed to do?!” My brain helpfully reminds me of the garbage can at the hospital and then getting Rick to turn around earlier. “There’s no way to- I can’t know for sure that I did that stuff,” I remind myself. “It could’ve just been coincidence.” But I don’t really buy that. Once? Maybe. Twice? No.

 

I glance at Duane again and frown. _He’s just a kid!_ _Do something!_ But again, what could I do? I made a small object move and possibly got Rick’s attention. So what? _Get their attention again! Warn them!_ I growl in frustration and flop down on the couch. This is ridiculous. I’m just going in circles. Literally.

 

____________________________________________________

 

When the walker that used to be Morgan’s wife wanders onto the porch, I push down my fear and phase through the outer wall.  _ They can’t touch you, they can’t touch you, they can’t touch you. _

 

I study her - from a healthy distance away, of course. I can see how she must have been quite beautiful before. Now, though, she’s just deeply unsettling. For obvious reasons, but also because she’ll be the reason Duane dies. Without intervention, Morgan won’t be able to put her down and she’ll end up biting their son. So... if I want to stop that, I have to stop her. Or get Morgan to go with Rick. Or both; both is best. But doing one of them could mean that Duane lives. 

 

A thought intrudes on my plotting: Should I be doing this? Meddling with events? I could end up making things worse.

 

I go back into the house to think.

 

____________________________________________________________

 

By morning, I’ve made my decision. I can’t sit idly by while a child is in danger. 

 

I go with them when they head to the station. I sit in one of the offices while they all shower and plan. When they get in their vehicles and go their separate ways, I’m sitting in the backseat of Morgan’s car. 

 

Later, as Morgan spots out the upstairs window with his rifle, I’m kneeling beside him and shouting.

 

“Do it, Morgan! You have to! Please!”

 

It’s not working.

 

I slump and sigh. My eyes drifting to the box of pictures and inspiration strikes. Maybe… maybe a more subtle approach would be better…

 

I reach into the box and try to pick up a picture. And… nope. I huff and try again. And again. And again. A small scream of frustration escapes me and I slap the box.

 

It topples over and pictures spill out. I stare.  _ Wait, that worked?! _ Next to me, Morgan tenses up and glances down, eyes nearly popping out of his head. With a shaky hand, he reaches out to touch the photos. 

 

_ Oh my God, this is working… It’s working! _

 

I brush at one of the pictures and it moves closer to him.  _ Yes! _ Morgan gasps and picks it up with trembling fingers.

 

Looking a little grey in the face, Morgan’s eyes dart around the room. He licks his chapped lips and whispers hoarsely, “B-baby… baby, is that you?”

 

_ Oh. _

 

Yeah, I probably should’ve realized he’d jump to that conclusion. I feel kind of awful now, but steel my resolve. If it saves Duane, a little manipulation can’t be  _ that _ bad, can it?

 

With a churning stomach, I move over to the taped-up picture and blow on it. It flutters. Morgan’s eyes dart towards the movement, then fill with tears.

 

“I’m so sorry…” he whispers brokenly. “I’m so, so sorry.” He hunches over and sobs quietly. I push at the rifle, now on the floor in front of him, and it nudges his knees. Morgan goes utterly and completely still. He stays that way for so long, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But then he reaches out and grabs the rifle, repositioning it over the back of the chair.

 

“Okay,” he says, sounding both defeated and determined. “Okay.”

 

When it’s over and done, I leave him to his grief. There isn’t much more I can do for now. I’m feeling kind of tired anyway.

 

_______________________________________________

 

The next day, after spending the whole night in some sort of weird stupor, I go into the living room to find Morgan and his son curled up together on the floor, still sound asleep. It makes me smile. No, I can’t be sure Duane won’t die. There are no guarantees in this world. But now, at least, it won’t be because Morgan didn’t do what needed to be done. 

 

I let myself soak in the sight for a moment longer, then walk over to the radio Rick gave Morgan. Time to commence Phase Two. This part of my plan is a little more thought out than the first. The way I see it, if I am a ghost - and I’m fairly sure I am at this point - then I should be able to mess with electronics. I mean, that’s what all the Cool Ghosts in the movies can do, right?

 

I sit cross-legged in front of the radio, then let my fingertips phase through it. Nothing. I frown and study the thing, then slap my forehead when I realize it’s not even on.  _ Shit. _ I focus all my strength into flipping the switch. It takes a lot of tries and the better part of an hour, but I finally do it. I take a few minutes to rest after that. This is all really tiring. Which is dumb, because I’m dead.

 

I press my hand into the radio again and, this time, it gives a soft squeal, followed by static. I experiment and find that if I move my hand around, it changes the pitch. 

 

“Dad…” Duane’s murmur catches my attention. He’s staring at the radio with wide eyes and nudging his dad awake. “Dad, wake up.”

 

“Mm?” Morgan mumbles, but cracks an eye open. When he sees his son’s wide eyes, he bolts upright and grabs for his gun. “What is it?” he demands, wide awake and scanning the room. I decide that’s my cue and stick my hand through the radio again. It gives an ear-piercing squeal. 

 

“That,” Duane replies, pointing to the radio. “Why’s it doing that?”

 

Morgan is staring intently at it and, consequently, me. If I squint, it’s almost like he sees me. I sigh and mess with the radio again. Morgan marches over and snatches it up, pressing down on the talk button. “Rick, you there?” He waits a moment, then, “Rick, that you?” His eyes narrow and he sets the radio back down, glancing around as he does so. Immediately, I stick my hand back through it.

 

“What the hell?” Duane says, frowning.

 

“Language,” Morgan warns distractedly. He’s still looking around, almost expectantly, as if…

 

_ Oh! _

 

I swat an empty can onto the floor. It clatters loudly on impact and I wince.  _ Oops. _ Duane gives a small shout and stands abruptly. 

 

“Dad!”

 

“It’s okay, son,” Morgan reassures. “It’s just…” He pauses then, looking torn. How  _ do _ you tell your son that you think his dead mother is making contact? I feel bad for putting him in this predicament, but not bad enough to stop. Morgan glances around again, then whispers under his breath, “What do you want me to do? I thought…”

 

“Daddy, who you talkin’ to?” Duane sounds worried and I can’t say I blame him.

 

I answer Morgan by touching the radio again. He frowns at it and rubs at his chin and lips, contemplative. I can see the exact moment when it clicks. 

 

“Rick? You… want me to find Rick?” he guesses. 

 

“Yes!” I shout excitedly while fluttering my fingers through the radio to create static. “Thank you!”

 

Morgan sighs and wipes a hand over his face. “Alright, then. Duane, pack your things. We’re leavin’.”

_______________________________________

The car ride is long… and boring. Time doesn’t feel the same now as it did in the hospital. I try to just let myself settle, to space out like before, but I can’t quite manage it. It takes a long time to relax, but I eventually feel my eyelids start to droop. I sink lower in the back seat and let them close fully, Morgan and Duane’s voices a soothing background hum. 


	3. Chapter 3

I’m uncomfortable. That’s my first thought upon waking.  _ Waking? _ It feels like I’m laying on gravel. My eyes flutter open and I look to my left to find that I  _ am _ laying on gravel. I groan and sit up, feeling a little dizzy.  _ Can ghosts get dizzy? _ I prop my head up with both hands and take a second to breathe. 

 

“Where am I?” I mutter to myself. Last I remember, I was in a car with Morgan and Duane. I glance around and surmise that I’m on a roof. What happened?

 

I hear shuffling to my right, then, “Oh Jesus… oh God… please, please…”

 

_ Whoa, wait. I know that voice! _

 

The person muttering pitiful pleas is obscured by ductwork. I push myself up and peer over it and sure enough, there sits Merle Dixon. He looks half-dead, sunburnt, and delirious. He’s tugging feebly at the handcuff around his wrist. Behind us, walkers growl and reach through a gap in the door. I caste them a wary glance. Sure, they can’t touch me, but they’re still awful and terrifying. 

 

I watch Merle fight with the cuffs, a deep frown etching my brow. Something -  _ someone? _ \- brought me to this rooftop. Why here? Am I supposed to help? _ Is any of this real?! _

 

I creep closer, pondering my current dilemma. This isn’t the same as saving Duane. This isn’t some innocent kid. Merle Dixon is Bad News and part of me just wants to walk away right now. I mean, assuming this isn’t all some truly impressive fever dream, what I do now will have consequences. What happens to Daryl if Merle is still around to whisper poison in his ear? And what about the rest of the group? Sure, Merle could be a real asset, but he’d need to learn how to work with others first and I’m not sure that’s possible. So that makes him a danger and a liability. 

 

_ He’s a person, Nel. _

 

I sigh and sit down on the duct. To my complete shock, Merle’s face turns in my direction. 

 

“Who’s there?” he growls and stares right at me. He squints, then his eyes widen in disbelief. “Fuckin’ hell!” We gape at each other for a good thirty seconds, each lost in our own heads. 

 

Mine is a running loop of  _ he sees me he sees me he sees me.  _ “You can see me?” I finally gasp.

 

But Merle isn’t exactly lucid right now. Instead of answering my question, he reaches out and says, “Please, help me.”

 

My eyes drop down to the cuff around his wrist. There’s blood welling up around it from the constant tugging. I know that if I leave him here, he’ll cut his own hand off.

 

_ Still a person. _

 

I level a mild glare at him. “Why should I?”

 

His breathing picks up and his eyes widen again. “Please, don’t leave me here. Don’t let me die like this! It ain’t right!”

 

“You won’t die,” I tell him truthfully. “You’ll cut your hand off.”

 

_ What the hell are you doing? _

 

Merle’s eyes dart toward the hacksaw laying on the roof about six feet away. He nods dazedly and starts scooting toward it.

 

_ Nel! _

 

“W-wait!” I say, slipping off of the duct to sit beside him. “Merle, wait.” He pauses, glancing back at me warily. “You don’t need to do that.” I stand up and look around for a drain. I spot one a few feet away. “Is that the one the key fell down?” I ask and he nods slowly. “I’ll be back,” I tell him. “Don’t go anywhere.” He snorts loudly.

 

I kneel beside the drain and stick my hand down into it. I feel around a bit; it seems like the pipe goes down a ways. I keep going until my entire arm is phased through the roof. The only problem is, if I can’t see the key, I’m not going to be able to pick it up. I’m going to have to stick my head down there.

 

“I’m going in,” I mutter sardonically to myself and push further. I line my eye up with the pipe and press my face through the roof. By the time I reach a junction, there’s almost no light to see by. But there, where the pipe turns to run parallel with the roof, the key rests in a pile of detritus. With all of my focus and will, I pinch the key between my fingers and carefully drag it back up the drain. The moment I have it over the gravel, my control wavers and it falls. I smile triumphantly down at it.

 

“Holy shit,” Merle mutters. Then he lunges forward, a manic light in his eyes, but he’s too far away to reach it. “Gimme the key, doll,” he coaxes. 

 

“I need you to promise me something first.” It’s out of my mouth before I really think things through.  _ Careful. _

 

“Anything, girl. Just give me the goddamn key,” he barks.

 

“Don’t go looking for revenge,” I demand, ignoring his attitude. It surprises him enough that he stops pulling on the cuffs to look me in the eye.

 

“Why?” he challenges.

 

“They didn’t mean to leave you here,” I say. “And we both know you got  _ yourself _ into this situation.”

 

Merle’s eyes narrow. “Those bastards chained me to this roof and left!”

 

“You would’ve done the same to them without a drop of remorse. At least they felt bad about it. They’re actually on their way back right now to get you.”  _ Or they should be.  _

 

Merle gives me a disbelieving look. “Why the hell would they do that?”

 

I cock my head. “So you admit you’re not worth coming back for?”

 

He backtracks. “Now, that ain’t what I said -”

 

“Merle, promise me,” I interrupt, getting back to the point.

 

After a tense moment where we just glare at each other, he finally concedes. “I promise I won’t hurt Officer Friendly or that piece-o’-shit nigger that dropped the key,” he says with an eye roll, holding two fingers up in a parody of a boyscout.

 

“I suppose that’s the best I’m gonna get out of you,” I sigh and pick up the key. It falls though my fingers again when I reach Merle. His free hand darts out and snatches it out of midair. He makes quick work of the cuffs, pulling his wrist free with a groan. “Your best bet is probably to wait here for them,” I advise.

 

Without warning, he lunges at me. I stumble backwards to get away, but it doesn’t really matter. Merle passes right through me and lands face-first in the gravel. 

 

I spin around and curl my lip at him. “Seriously?!”

 

“What the fuck are you?” he hisses, picking himself up. 

 

“Clearly an idiot for helping you,” is my snide reply. Feeling suddenly drained, I slump against the ducts and close my eyes. 

 

“Hey, where’d you go?” Merle growls, turning circles. 

 

I find I don’t have the energy to answer him, so I just watch. He searches for me for a minute, then just stands there for another. I watch as his expression crumples into something dark and he smacks himself upside the head. 

 

“Get ahold o’ yerself, Dixon,” he mutters, shaking his head as if to dislodge the past thirty minutes from his memory. “‘S just too much sun, not enough water. Fuck...”

 

_ Huh. _ So he’s convinced himself I was just a hallucination. That’s probably for the best, honestly. 

 

When Merle leaves the roof via the other door, I haul myself up and trudge after him.  _ What else am I gonna do? _

 

We shuffle down the stairs and into an office space. Focused as I am on simply staying upright, I don’t notice the walkers until one is falling through me. I scream and Merle whips around. He catches it by the shoulders and pushes it back at me. I jump away, panting hard with fear. Meanwhile, Merle grabs the nearest blunt object and starts bludgeoning the thing. Gore splatters at my feet and I gag. 

 

Before Merle can even stand up, another walker throws itself at him. He dispatches that one with the same easy brutality. I can only watch in horror.

 

When it’s over, Merle is breathing hard and his hands are covered in blood. There’s some on the broken skin of his wrist. He squats next to one of the walkers and wipes his hands on its shirt before searching the pockets. He looks over all of them and comes away with a pocket knife and a bottle of pills. He stashes the pills in his own pocket and flicks the knife open, scoffing at it. Then he heads for the door on the other side of the room.

 

“Merle, we should really stay here,” I sigh, knowing full well he can no longer hear me. But he pauses, hand on the knob.  _ Or maybe he can? _ “Merle, we have to stay,” I say a little more firmly. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and glances over his shoulder. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks nervous.

 

Merle shakes his head sharply and growls. “Shut the fuck up,” he mutters to me, but in a way that makes it clear he thinks he’s imagining my voice. He yanks the door open and marches through. I follow with a huff.

 

“Don’t you want to see your brother again?” I ask as we enter a little kitchen area.

 

“‘Course I fuckin’ do,” he answers, then pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “Goddamnit! Quit talking to yerself, you crazy sonuva bitch.”

 

“We’re all mad here,” I quote absently.

 

He glowers at the cabinet he’s rummaging through and doesn’t say anything else. I notice he doesn’t look at me whenever he responds and I wonder if he can’t see me or if he doesn’t want to. 

 

When Merle spots a sink tucked away in the corner, he rushes over and turns it on. After a second, it splutters and water trickles out. He sticks his head under and drinks.

 

“That’s probably a bad idea…” 

 

The water doesn’t last long. Merle swallows and snorts. “Ain’t the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth, darlin’.”

 

I let out a startled, barking laugh. “Good God!”

 

He grins crookedly and slides down the wall to sit on the ground. “A’right, you win. I’ll stay here. ‘M tired anyway.”

 

“Just rest. I’ll keep watch,” I tell him, perching myself on a table. 

 

Merle gives a mirthless chuckle. “Oh, good, my very own guardian angel,” he says sarcastically, but leans his head back and closes his eyes.

 

I don’t know how long we stay like that. Time is passing strangely again, fickle as is now the usual. I’m not sure if Merle is actually asleep. He seems too tense for that, but I don’t really know him, do I? If this  _ is _ real, then so are the people. They’re not characters anymore. How truly reliable is my knowledge? 

 

An indeterminate amount of time later, I hear something. I stand and hurry over to the man resting on the floor.

 

“Merle,” I hiss. “Something’s coming!”

 

Merle bolts upright, knife clenched in his hand, and ducks behind the door. With a deep, bracing breath, I walk through the door and into the office space. Before I can make it across the room, someone enters from the other side. I jump a little in surprise but smile when I realize who it is. I return to Merle with that smile still on my face.

 

“It’s Daryl.”

 

Merle relaxes and stashes the knife back in his pocket. He exits the kitchenette with a grin of his own. “Didja miss me, baby brother?”

 

Daryl is already looking in our direction, obviously having heard Merle before he ever saw him. Behind him are Rick, Glenn, and T-Dog. The latter looks visibly relieved. Glenn looks unsure and Rick just looks stern as always.  

 

Daryl lowers his crossbow and smirks back. “Nah, we just came back for the tools.”

 

Merle snorts. “Ya got any water?”

 

Daryl pulls a canteen from his pack and tosses it to Merle. Merle catches it, unscrews the cap, and gulps it down, water trickling down his chin. He swipes the back of a hand over his mouth and tosses the canteen back to Daryl. Finally, he turns his attention to the others.

 

“Well, well, well…” He saunters over to them. “Lookee here. Ya’ll just come back for the tools, too? Or didja pussy out on leavin’ me behind?”

 

“They came back for  _ a _ tool,” I drawl, glaring at Merle. “Do you  _ want _ to get handcuffed to another roof?” He gives no sign of having heard me. 

 

Meanwhile, the others are all talking over each other, giving explanations and trying to make peace. Merle reserves an especially venomous glare for T-Dog. “You dropped the key down a fuckin’ drain. What kinda clumsy, fat-assed, piece-of-shit - “

 

“Merle,” Daryl and I say at the same time. To my surprise, I’m the one that sounds more stern.

 

Merle rounds on Daryl. “This goddamn coon,” he points forcefully at T-Dog, “left me for dead and you jus’ want me to roll over and take that shit?!” As Merle’s volume rises, I can see Daryl giving. If this comes to blows, I have no doubt he’ll side with his older brother. 

 

_ Shit. _

 

“I didn’t leave you for dead!” T-Dog snaps. “I chained the door behind me to keep the geeks out!”

 

“He’s telling the truth,” I say to Merle.  _ C’mon you idiot. _

 

“I’m the one who cuffed you,” Rick interjects. “If you’re gonna be mad at anyone, be mad at me.”

 

Merle grins nastily. “Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head, officer. There’s plenty to go around.”

 

“How  _ did _ you get out of those handcuffs?” Glenn asks, speaking for the first time since this conversation began. I’m reminded then of just how perceptive Glenn can be. I wonder how Merle will handle this. 

 

“Picked the lock,” Merle grunts. “Are we gonna get outta here or what?”

 

“Yeah,” Rick replies. “We gotta pick somethin’ up first, though.”

 

“You got the tools,” Merle argues. “What the hell else you need?”

 

“Guns,” Rick tells him. “I dropped a bag of ‘em when I got trapped in that tank.”

  
_ Oh, right. _ I sigh and rub my temples.  _ Crap. _


End file.
